


Reading Him From The Start

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), These two were so together before everything went wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 07:36:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18177752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: Tom’s phone is an absolute disgrace, all things considered. Somehow, he’s managed to chip every single corner, and thank God he bothered to put a screen protector on, otherwise you would have ended up with a palm full of glass splinters. The sparkly pink case is scuffed, and when it rings, it makes a strange buzzing sound, like a dying bee. Eileen’s name flashes up in capital letters, but you find yourself peering behind it. There’s something familiar about his lockscreen, and your eyes widen when you realise what you’re staring at.Based on the prompt: “Am I your lockscreen?” “You weren’t supposed to see that.”





	Reading Him From The Start

“Alright everyone, that’s a ten.” You scrub your hands over your face and sigh, trying to ignore the almost delighted cheers from the cast as they flee the room. Today has been a particularly trying experience; despite Ivy’s vast talent, there’s something about Never Give All The Heart that doesn’t feel right. Not to mention that their usual piano player is absent, and Tom’s taking over the musical direction, running between the tables and the piano between every song like a cat chasing a laser pointer. You’ve been snapping all day – at Ivy, at Tom, even at Julia. She just looks at you over her glasses and rolls her eyes, deliberately shuffling her papers even louder. Tom tries to hide a smile. 

You’re not getting anywhere, so a break seems only natural. You should probably schedule lunch soon too; the mints you’ve been bolting down all morning don’t seem to be cutting it. You’re about to broach this idea to Tom when you realise he’s not in his seat, and is instead escorting Ivy out of the door, the two of them sniggering about something. In his place, he’s left his phone, which begins to vibrate as you stare at it. 

Tom’s phone is an absolute disgrace, all things considered. Somehow, he’s managed to chip every single corner, and thank God he bothered to put a screen protector on, otherwise you would have ended up with a palm full of glass splinters. The sparkly pink case is scuffed, and when it rings, it makes a strange buzzing sound, like a dying bee. Eileen’s name flashes up in capital letters, but you find yourself peering behind it. There’s something familiar about his lockscreen, and your eyes widen when you realise what you’re staring at. 

The photo is old – too old to have been taken from a camera phone – and you can see the sepia creeping in, the corners crinkled. Still, the image is clear enough; three people stood around a piano, peering down at the keys. Tom’s in the middle, and you laugh, despite yourself. It was back before he started straightening his hair, and his curls are puffed up like a cloud. He’s wearing a disgustingly bright pink shirt as well - a little too tight for him, judging by the tug on the lower buttons. Julia thankfully covers up the rest of his outfit, and you find yourself grinning fondly. You’d forgotten that hideous bedazzled bag she used to lug around, stuffed with papers. She’s pointing to the sheet music, her face alight with enthusiasm. This photo must predate Leo; she definitely doesn’t look tired enough to have a small child running around. Yet you follow her gaze along to the third figure, and feel your stomach tighten. 

It’s you, all those years ago. Before Bombshell, before My Fair Lady. Hell, you’re probably working on Oliver. There’s a little hand tugging on your jacket, its owner hidden by the piano - only Lyle would be daring enough to interrupt you during a side bar. Even back then, you couldn’t say no to the kid. You haven’t quite acknowledged him yet; there’s very clearly something else on your mind. 

Your arm is wrapped around Tom’s waist. Nothing serious, nothing sexy; an outside observer could even say it was just a balance issue, if they were feeling particularly heteronormative. But you know better, and the light blush on Tom’s cheeks tells a story of its own.  
He’d always been so warm, you remember abruptly, flexing your fingers. Warm and soft. Holding him was like huddling up with a hot water bottle, except this one could nuzzle and huff and sleepily mumble. Even in his sleep, Tom Levitt couldn’t shut up. 

“What are you doing?” You glance up and he’s frowning at you, hands on his hips like the fussy Jewish mother he is. There’s a lot less softness to him now, you notice; he really had lost weight, but you weren’t quite sure when. It felt like only yesterday you’d had him in your arms, but there’s a space between you now that has nothing to do with distance. He catches sight of the phone in your hands, and his frown turns to a scowl as he snatches it from your hands. “That’s mine, you prick.” 

“Sorry, it was so shiny I thought it must belong to a technologically advanced magpie.” You can hear him huff as you turn away, and there’s silence other than him clicking through his messages; of course he still had the typing sound on. The message from Eileen mustn’t have been important, as he slips it into his back pocket as soon as he’s finished. You’re not quite sure how he managed to squeeze it in – those jeans are so tight there’s barely room for a matchstick. 

“Am I your lockscreen?” You don’t know why you’re asking - you already know the truth – but it’s worth it to see the flush rise high in his cheeks. He doesn’t seem flustered though. His voice is quiet enough not to echo through the empty hall. 

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He ducks his head enough to let his fringe flop in front of his face. “Julia and I were going through old photos for our anniversary and…” He pauses, and straightens his shoulders, turning to you with a half-cocky look on his face, as if daring you to challenge him. “It’s a nice photo. That’s all. I wanted a copy of it; that’s all.”

“You really wanted to be reminded of that haircut?” It slips out before you can stop it, but luckily Tom snorts, and pushes back his fringe. A definite improvement, you think, remembering the spring of his curls against your palms. You wonder what it feels like now. Probably all sleek, though hopefully still soft. 

You must have been silent for longer than you intended, because Tom is looking at you with concern now. He takes a half-step towards you, then thinks better of it. You can hear the cast gathering in the corridor, chatting amicably. You’ve only got a few seconds left, but you want to say something to him. Anything. 

But years wouldn’t be enough to discuss what had passed and all too soon, stage management bustles in and people start taking their places. Tom busies himself at the piano, and you lean back in your chair. There isn’t time to think about that now; you’ve got a musical to produce, and it’ll take all your attention. 

So if you catch Tom smiling every time he opens his phone, you don’t think about it for one second. You don’t even stop to wonder if he’s smiling down at you. 

To hope, maybe, but not to wonder.


End file.
